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Night

When Monique stumbled out of her bedroom/closet at 10 a.m., she said—or croaked, actually—“I need some water!” Her French accent thickens in the morning. Once she had filled up a couple of water bottles, she said, “Best thing for a hangover is to sweat it out.” We bought muffins and yogurt at the grocery store across the street, then bussed to Stanley Park and circled the sea wall on foot, a three-hour walk. Thickly-leaved trees bordered the path. Jagged, blue mountains loomed on the north shore. Crisp salt air rolled off the ocean and we breathed it in deep. Waves sloshed and slapped the wall. Every so often, a beach opened up and we would rest on a log for awhile. Nothing better than walking and talking. I learned a lot about Monique. For now, she waitresses to supplement her dance career, but she's going to train as a massage therapist: the human body fascinates her.

Tonight, we made Indian food—chicken curry and basmati rice with mango chutney—and drank mint tea. It's only nine. The sky hasn't yet faded to black, but sleep is dropping down, bringing sweet salt-air and blue wave dreams …

Monday, August 23rd

I doubted myself during rehearsal again today. The others have all learned the piece, so I've lost the advantage I had last week. Lance and Petra have to reassure me constantly; otherwise, I feel myself shrinking.

After rehearsal, Petra took me aside and said it looked like I was holding back. She wanted me to dance bigger. I admitted that I was afraid of making mistakes and embarrassing myself in front of the professionals. “I thought so,” she said. “You're starting to be ‘careful.' If you're going to make a mistake, make it big!”

I couldn't imagine doing that. I stood there feeling miserable. When Petra hired me, she didn't realize how much propping up I was going to need.

“Remember when you couldn't look at me after the Dance-Is show?” She hugged me sideways, with one arm. “You thought I was going to be so mad at you for changing the counts.”

I remembered that night all too clearly. “That's exactly the sort of screw-up I'm worried about.”

“Natalie, don't you remember what I told you that night?”

I shook my head.

“You got it right. You danced from your emotional core, and that's what the audience saw. That's what's most important. I don't mean you should throw technique or choreography out the window, but what matters most is staying true to the mood of the piece.”

It was becoming clear that Petra really meant what she was saying. This wasn't just about trying to make me feel better for messing up the counts.

“Why don't you come watch my tech rehearsal? It might be a good distraction for you.”

In the empty theater, Petra performed a solo created by another choreographer for the same festival. At the beginning, she crouched and huddled, balled up like a seed pod in a dim cellar. Light stabbed like someone was opening a door, and a beam of bright sunshine flooded a narrow strip of stage. Petra started to unfurl towards the light, then the door slammed shut and she crumpled again. She repeated this sequence several times.

Finally, the door cracked open and the light stayed. Petra's arms unfolded and she grew to a standing position. She explored the narrow corridor of light as the music intensified into sustained, orchestral chords. Once she had established the boundaries of the space, Petra began to dance bigger, with jumps and turns, running from one end of the beam to the next, but always contained within the light, never stepping outside it. The music was fading and the door began to close. She twisted and turned in panic as she realized she was running out of lit space. I leaned forward, terrified that she would end up in the cellar again, wanting something to happen, some breakthrough.

Before the door could close on her, Petra escaped the beam of light. She began to zigzag in and out of it, making
it
a part of
her
pattern. She controlled the space. The door halted. Then it slowly widened, back to the previous width. Petra played a game. She circled the perimeter of the triangle of light, staying just outside it. The crack widened to include her. She did this twice more, each time pushing the light to expand. Then it became random. She danced anywhere on the stage, and the light swelled and shrank, no longer a cage for her but a playmate. At one point, the stage was flooded with light—a bright, shadowless noon time. At another it was pitch dark, then lit from the wings. I wondered how the piece would end. I hoped Petra wouldn't be returned to the box—and I got my wish. The last light effect made the stage look like a sun-dappled forest, and Petra ran and skipped in figure eights and circles, forwards and backwards, until finally she ran off the stage.

During the tech rehearsal, she had to break down the piece step by step so the lighting designer and the choreographer could make the cues. It would have been boring, but Petra took the opportunity to plumb each phrase for its deepest quality. Movements that would happen in a split second during the actual dance, she dwelled in sometimes for minutes. I was startled by how naked and vulnerable the gestures could be. I wanted to wrap her in my arms and hug her; I wanted to join hands and skip with her; I wanted to fight my way into the technicians' booth and learn how to shine the light she longed for and deserved.

By the time it was over, I'd been on a journey. Petra pulled me out of myself, and at the same time, I related to her. Now I see what bothered me about Ms. Kelly's choreography. It was purely physical. Her jazz moves isolated sexual energy, so the girls dancing weren't fully human, just eye candy. Petra's solo made me
feel
.

Tuesday, August 24th

The other night I asked Mom if she was going to bring Marine to Vancouver to see the show. Her breath sort of caught in her throat. “I'm sure she would love to come, but she doesn't like to impose on our family time.”

I could hear how much it meant to her. “I don't mind. I like Marine. It would be nice if you brought her.” It made my heart swell to say that.

“Thank you, Natalie. That's very generous. I'll invite her and let you know.”

Tonight she confirmed that Marine is coming with her.

Too bad Paige won't be here. She will only miss the show by a couple of days.

Wednesday, August 25th

Lance seems to have a fountain inside. It fills him up with self-acceptance and spills over to his students. I soak up his instruction the way a plant absorbs water, and it makes me more expansive and daring.

The only problem is that, by the next day, the inspiration leaks away and leaves me empty and wilted again. I could never teach. I can't even buoy myself up, let alone someone else.

Thursday, August 26th

DAD JUST CALLED!

That has to be the first unscheduled Dad-initiated phone call in YEARS. Okay, it was obviously Mom-initiated, since how else did he get Monique's phone number? (I've dropped a few hints about cell phones making it easier to get hold of people, especially nomadic performers like me, but so far no dice. Not surprising, since Mom loathes technology. On the other hand, Dad lives and breathes it—can't he get Paige and me on some family plan? Or would that depend on
living in the same province
? Oh, no. I was in a good mood. Here I go again …)

Dad put Vi and Paige on the phone, and everyone wished me good luck and said they would have loved to see the show. Bittersweet. Why can't Dad live out here, anyway? Plenty of other kids' parents have stayed close by after a divorce. They make a commitment not to move until the kids are eighteen. That's what becoming a parent is: a commitment. Dad never seemed to grasp that fact. It interfered with his
bliss.
(Gag.) At least he showed some responsibility and got a vasectomy. Otherwise, he probably would have done the same thing all over again with Vi, who doesn't have kids. I wonder if she's disappointed. She met Dad at thirty-five, just when her biological alarm clock should have been going off. I have a feeling he didn't tell her about the vasectomy until after she had fallen for him. I don't think it shows too much, the scars I mean, or, actually, I don't know about that. I've never asked—eww!

Thankfully, Monique just came home and distracted me. She made me sniff her clothes: “Do I smell like fish grease?” She went out for a drink with a guy after work and worried about her odor the whole time. “I hate working in a restaurant. My hair stinks as well.”

“When you're a massage therapist, you will only smell of essential oils.”

“
Mais oui
.” She lit patchouli incense and headed for the shower, calling out that we should go to the Blue Zone for a cast party on Saturday night.

I hope we just go out for food instead. I can't face the whole lying-about-my-age thing again right away.

Friday, August 27th

Over the past two weeks, I've gathered from dressing room conversations that Beth is out of work, Katrina is breaking up with her boyfriend, and Halle's father is dying of prostate cancer. Monique, of course, is working full-time and trying to save money for massage school. But everyone puts their stresses aside when they enter the studio, and magic happens. Fatigue melts away when we start to move.

After our final run-through today, Petra pulled me aside and said she was delighted with my work. She said I'm showing an emotional maturity that is surprising in someone my age, and that she can't tell anymore that I'm younger than the other dancers in the piece.

I owe it all to her and Lance. Not sure what will happen on Saturday without class or rehearsal before the show.

Saturday, August 28th

Wow. Can't believe they all showed up!

To start at the beginning: arriving backstage alone was nerve-wracking. The dancers from the other choreographers' pieces huddled in clusters and either ignored me, or looked me up and down like I was in the wrong place. A woman whose silver makeup made her look like the Tin Man in the
Wizard of Oz
was hairspraying her bangs. With one eye shut and a hand shielding her open eye, she said, “Who're you looking for?”

“Petra Moss?” I couldn't keep the question mark out of my voice.

“Other dressing room.” Spritz. Spritz.

I coughed. “Thank you.”

Next door, I found Petra, Monique, and the others. “There you are!” Petra said. She hugged me. “Do you need any help getting ready?”

She pinned me into my costume and touched up my hair. The close quarters made it hard to warm up, but I followed the others in Pilates exercises on the floor.

We were third up in the first half. When our five-minute call came, we held hands in a circle. We breathed together to center ourselves, then entered the wings one by one and picked our way among shin-high light fixtures and electrical cords. Crew members dressed in black were standing by to handle props and set changes. We slid into place behind heavy velvet curtains. I glimpsed the audience. Although it was dark, light reflected off people's faces, especially their glasses. Adrenaline surged through my body and my muscles twitched. Too late, Beth pulled me back, and I remembered the simple rule: If you can see them, they can see you. I was acting like a kid again.

As the lights came up, we
sensed
each other to know the timing. Eye contact and synchronized breath joined us into a larger organism. We gave weight and received it; we lifted each other. As the music sped up and grew louder, dissonant notes made us jump higher, push harder, and split from each other. As we spoked in our own directions, I felt the thrill of near-collision. These women commanded the space, and it took all I had to match their power.

I made it into the wings, where I had a few bars to catch my breath. As my lungs heaved, it hit me:
I am performing professionally.
I nearly missed my cue and Katrina pushed me between the shoulder blades. She and I were supposed to cross together, as rivals, and it took me a couple of counts to catch up.

I pressed on for the rest of the piece, but it felt more like a dress rehearsal. The music, the lighting, the stage, and the movement didn't really coalesce anymore. At least it rang true when I stumbled, confused and alone, across the stage. I was surrounded by darkness, stripped of support, forced to rely on myself. Anyone who did cross my path was likely an enemy who couldn't be trusted. Safety came only from solitude. But solitude brought pain. I filled that solo with so much emotion that I almost lost control.

Afterwards, Petra ran backstage right away. She handed each of us a long-stemmed red rose and kissed us on the cheek. “You were wonderful. So fully invested in the movement.” Her kindness made me all the more determined to do a better job the next night.

By the time I'd changed out of my costume and washed off the makeup, the show was practically over. I waited in the lobby. When the ushers propped open the doors, I spotted Mom and Marine inside the theater and was watching them slowly progress up the aisle when a voice called, “Natalie!” I spun around, not quite believing what I heard. Streaking across the lobby from the far aisle was Paige. With sun-bleached hair, a freckled face, a new white dress, and sandals. She looked older, but maybe it was just the clothes. She flung herself around my neck, and I spun her like we were on the front lawn in our bathing suits, playing in the sprinkler. “Paige! What are you
doing
here?”